


Fear is the Heart of Love

by wesleysgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately post The Great Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear is the Heart of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Ridiculous amounts of thanks to maggie_conagher for the beta.  
> For my [Trope_Bingo card](http://wesleysgirl.livejournal.com/1379943.html).  
> Trope: Sharing a Bed.

“John. _John._ For God’s sake --”

John can hear Sherlock’s worried voice, feel anxious hands touching his shoulders and chest, but can’t summon the strength to open his eyes. He realizes that he can’t breathe -- he’s choking, his lungs filled up with water, and he panics and flails, fighting the hands that are holding him down and rolling him onto his side. He coughs and coughs, water chlorine-tinged in his sinuses.

“Good,” Sherlock says between coughing fits, patting his back. “Get rid of it, that’s it. You’re all right.”

He isn’t all right, not really, but he can breathe again and that’s a start. 

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Sherlock leans down to look into his eyes. “I couldn’t leave you, obviously, but --”

John coughs some more, then nods. He actually has no idea if he’s hurt other than being nearly _drowned_ , and right then oxygen is the most important thing in the world. No, he realizes, and manages to croak out a single word. “You?”

“I expect I’ll have some bruises come morning,” Sherlock says. “Don’t worry about me, you’re the one who -- you weren’t _breathing_ \--” 

For a moment, John thinks Sherlock is about to break down, but that’s when the police arrive along with an ambulance, and after that he barely has a chance to think about anything for hours.

It’s almost midnight when the nurse bustles out of John’s hospital room -- they’re insisting on monitoring his condition overnight, and he hasn’t the energy to argue. He just wants to sleep, and he does doze for a few hours to the sound of Sherlock typing furiously on his laptop. He’ll sleep for a while, open his eyes to see Sherlock’s face illuminated by the screen, drift off again.

The next time he opens his eyes, Sherlock is standing at the window looking out at the dark night, shoulders slumped. 

“Go home,” John says groggily. There’s no point in both of them losing sleep, after all.

Sherlock turns to look at him. His face is in shadow now, his eyes dark and unblinking. It’s not the first time or even the hundredth that John wonders what on earth is going on inside that fantastic brain of his. He doesn’t say anything for far too long, and John finds himself growing alarmed.

“Sherlock. Are you all right?” Christ, he sounds terrible even to his own ears.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” It’s utterly unconvincing and John sits up, ignoring the ache in his chest and the bleeping of the heart monitor as it broadcasts his activity. 

“I don’t know, maybe you’re hurt and don’t want to admit it?” That’s the first idea that springs to John’s mind even as he studies Sherlock for evidence and sees none. “No. What is it? Come here.” He’ll feel better if they’re closer, so he can reassure himself.

Sherlock obeys, which ought to be sign enough that something isn’t right. He perches on the side of John’s bed and submits to John’s cursory examination, muscles tense enough that John isn’t sure he’d be able to identify a problem if one existed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” John tells him, “but bugger if I can figure out what’s going on. You’ll have to tell me.”

For long minutes Sherlock sits and says nothing. John waits. He’s a patient man, he can give Sherlock whatever time he needs. 

“I can’t,” Sherlock says, so quietly that John has to strain to hear him. “I can’t lose --” 

He raises his eyes and meets John’s gaze, and the anguish on Sherlock’s face in that moment is like a knife being twisted -- John reaches out and grabs onto Sherlock’s hand, holds it tightly. 

“You won’t,” he promises. It’s a useless promise, one he can’t rightfully make, yet he means it. There’s nothing that could drag him away from Sherlock, not even death. 

“They didn’t find him,” Sherlock says. He’s sitting very still.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” John tells him. Sherlock looks exhausted, _beyond_ exhausted, as if he’s holding himself together with sheer will power, and John can see that no amount of lies, no matter how well-intentioned, will soothe him. “All right, look -- you’re right. They didn’t find him, we both made it out so of course there’s a chance he might have. But we can’t do anything about it now, and fretting about it all night won’t do you any good. Go home. Get some sleep. We’ll sort it out later.”

Sherlock doesn’t seem any less worried, and there’s a stubborn set to his jaw that John would recognize from across a much larger room than this one. “Home’s not safe. And I’m not leaving you here.”

“I’d be --” John begins to argue, then realizes there’s no point -- it would just be a waste of energy, and neither of them has it to spare. He sighs. “Right. You need sleep and you’re not going to get any here, and that means I won’t, either. So let’s go somewhere else.”

He sits up carefully, pushing Sherlock’s hands away when they try to restrain him.

“Find me my clothes, will you?” 

“But John -- you --” The frown John directs at Sherlock silences him, and Sherlock brings him pants and trousers that are still faintly damp. The smell of chlorine is disturbing but John soldiers past it as he does so many things, shoving his feet into his shoes and tugging his T-shirt over his head when Sherlock offers it.

“Come on," he says determinedly. "Let’s go.”

Sherlock glances toward the hallway. “Don’t you need to be formally released?”

“What I need,” John says slowly, “is to get some rest, so stop stalling and take me to the nearest hotel.”

They get outside without anyone stopping them, and Sherlock flags down a taxi in moments. John doesn’t pay attention to where they end up, just leans against Sherlock as the car moves, eyes closed, concentrating on breathing and the knowledge that he’ll soon be able to lie down in a proper bed and sleep.

Sherlock hangs onto him as they go into the hotel. John knows they must be attracting some curious looks at the very least, but he hasn’t got the energy to care. He’s grateful to have the counter to lean against as Sherlock gets them a room and then shepherds him up to it. 

“Thank Christ,” John says, sinking down onto the bed and struggling to kick off his shoes.

“Stop,” Sherlock tells him, locking the door. “I’ll get those.” He crouches down and takes John’s shoes off for him.

“Thanks,” John says tiredly, and Sherlock’s warm hand squeezes his ankle for a brief moment, too brief to be anything but an accident.

Sherlock looks up at him. “None of this would have happened --”

“Please,” John says, because he hasn’t the energy for this right now. “Please, Sherlock. This isn’t your fault, all right?”

“I’m so sorry.” Sherlock’s voice is barely above a whisper. The words hang between them, heavy with Sherlock’s obvious distress.

“Don’t be.” John pats Sherlock’s shoulder. “Now come to bed and try to sleep, will you?”

There’s only the one bed, so they’ll have to share, but that’s the least of John’s worries. He manages to strip down to his pants and get under the covers. The room is warm and quiet, and plunged into darkness when Sherlock turns off the light. It’s a surprise -- John had imagined Sherlock would stay up, working on his laptop or at the very least claiming no need to sleep -- but a welcome one.

He barely needs to close his eyes, but he does, and when he opens them again it’s late morning by the look of the sunshine streaming in between the shades. Sherlock is asleep, the lines on his face relaxed in slumber, breathing slow and even. John hasn’t had many opportunities to watch Sherlock sleep, and he takes advantage of this one, though it doesn’t last as long as he’d have liked. 

Sherlock opens his eyes, goes from asleep to full awareness in a heartbeat. The tension enters him like a living thing and he reaches for John, hand closing around John’s bare arm. “All right?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You should have woken me.”

“Didn’t want to move,” John says, then belies this by stretching. “Ow.”

Sherlock sits up, alarmed. “You’re not all right. Do you need to go back to the hospital?”

“No. I’m fine -- just a bit sore. No more than you, I’m sure.” John doesn’t really remember the few seconds before the explosion, but he knows Sherlock must be as bruised and battered as he feels. “They looked you over, didn’t they?” He ought to have asked before this. He sits up, which tugs the covers lower and reveals that Sherlock has slept fully dressed.

“Of course. Care to check for yourself?” Sherlock is almost certainly joking -- his tone is dismissive enough -- but something behind his eyes holds an echo of what John had seen in them last night, a similar desperation, and in an instant John believes he knows what will erase it.

“I would, actually. You’ll have to remove your shirt.” He looks at Sherlock expectantly, as though he anticipates immediate obedience, and after a moment -- to his surprise -- Sherlock sits up and begins to unbutton his shirt.

Sherlock is pale. He’s always pale. It makes the bruises on his skin stand out, but John is relieved to note that none of the bruising is particularly concerning. Still, he says, “Get the light, would you?” and Sherlock does.

“There, see? I’m fine,” Sherlock tells him.

John frowns and moves closer, pushing Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders. “Hm, yes. I think you’re right.”

“I’d hope so. It’s my body, after all. I’d know if there were something wrong with it.”

Thinking he’d be more concerned that there’d be something wrong and Sherlock would ignore it in favor of whatever was deemed more interesting at the time, John brushes his fingers along the darkest bruise over Sherlock’s ribs, then presses more firmly. Sherlock flinches.

“Your hand is cold,” he explains, and John believes him.

“Right, well. Just take it easy for a few days, okay? I mean it.”

“I’m not the one who stopped breathing,” Sherlock points out, but he doesn’t sound angry or irritated the way he normally would. He sounds _shaken_ , almost frightened, and John doesn’t hesitate to follow his first instinct, which is to pull Sherlock toward him into an awkward hug that Sherlock returns as if desperate for reassurance.

Sherlock’s hair smells of wool. John closes his eyes and inhales the scent of it, then murmurs, “I’ve got you.” He’s never been pressed to another man like this before, not half-undressed and warmly intimate, but strangely it feels natural all the same. “Okay?”

Sherlock nods against his shoulder and makes no attempt to pull away. “John,” he begins, deep and hoarse as if he’s been shouting. “I. Am so --”

John can’t bear to hear Sherlock apologize again, not when none of this is truly his fault. In that moment, he’d do almost anything to shut Sherlock up. What he _does_ do is lift Sherlock’s face and kiss him.

It doesn’t last long as far as kisses go, but when Sherlock pulls back and searches his face John knows he’s not the only one who found it overwhelming. Sherlock’s eyes, normally sharp and impatient, are instead uncertain and soft and more than a bit shocked. His lips press together and then part again. His eyes close and he leans in, mouth to John’s bare shoulder, one arm slipping around John’s waist. John slides his hand into Sherlock’s hair and cradles his skull gently, trying not to shiver as his skin prickles at the exhalation of Sherlock’s warm breath. “Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

Sherlock inhales shakily and hangs on to him. John begins to regret the kiss; he’d like to believe that he’d meant it to improve the situation, but in truth it had been purely instinctual.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a low voice. “I shouldn’t have done that.” It’s absurd that he’s now apologizing for having done something to stop _Sherlock_ apologizing, but he’ll do whatever’s necessary to make up for this. 

“I’m glad you did,” Sherlock rumbles. “John. You have to leave.”

“Well, I didn’t think we’d stay here in this hotel forever. We’ll be hungry sooner or later, for one.” John doesn’t know where Sherlock is going with this, and he suspects he doesn’t want to.

Making a frustrated sound, Sherlock straightens up and glares at him. “You know that’s not what I mean. You can’t stay here -- not in London, not even in England. You have to leave the country if there’s any chance of you being safe.”

John hasn’t failed to note the singular. “You’re completely mad if you think I’m going anywhere without you.”

“I can’t solve this if I have to worry about your safety,” Sherlock says. “I can’t work like that. It’s impossible.”

“No,” John says, trying to sound calm. “Thinking I’ll let you send me away is what’s impossible. If I’m not safe here, than neither are you. We’ll both go.” He knows there’s no way Sherlock will agree to this, but he’s equally determined to put up a fight. “We’ll take a holiday until he forgets about us.”

“He won’t,” Sherlock counters. “He’ll track us down no matter how long it takes. He’ll _find_ you, he’ll _use_ you to get to me.” Standing up, Sherlock shrugs his unbuttoned shirt over his shoulders and runs a hand through his hair. 

John gets up as well, ignoring the protests of his strained muscles and the faint wheeze in his chest. “I don’t care.” 

“That’s not the _point_!” Sherlock has gone from frustrated to furious. “Whether or not _you_ care is immaterial. I care, and more importantly Moriarty knows it!”

John opens his mouth to argue, but begins to cough instead. It catches him by surprise; Sherlock comes over and has him sit on the bed, sits beside him, until he’s finished. 

“I can’t even stay angry with you,” Sherlock says bleakly, and in that moment it’s clear to John that it isn’t just the kiss Sherlock finds overwhelming -- it’s all of this, their friendship and the direction in which it’s been evolving. “How do you do that?” 

The man is brilliant, capable of things no one else on the planet could begin to dream of, yet _this_ is what leaves him bewildered.

“It’s not a conscious act on my part,” John assures him. “Look, it’s going to be fine, okay?”

“You do realize what a useless sentiment that is?” Sherlock asks.

John laughs, then stops himself before he starts coughing again. “Maybe, but I for one am going to choose to believe it. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“I could drug you,” Sherlock says. 

“Tie me up and put me on a plane to a foreign country,” John agrees. “But you won’t.”

“Won’t I?” Sherlock turns to look at him, so close that John’s stomach does something acrobatic and unexpected. “How do you know?”

John swallows and tries not to stare at Sherlock’s mouth. “Because I know you,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“Yes, well.” Sherlock smirks. It’s not really an amused smirk, more a sad one. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“And you don’t like being unsure.” John smiles at him reassuringly. “There, see? More proof, if you needed it.”

“I don’t.” Sherlock’s voice is deep. He doesn’t say anything else, just continues to search John’s eyes until there’s nothing else for it -- John has to lean in and kiss him again. He moves slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to realize what’s about to happen and put a stop to it if that’s what he wants. Sherlock remains perfectly still, waiting, until the instant their mouths are about to meet; then he closes his eyes and lifts his chin the slightest fraction, and John doesn’t have to hold back.

Sherlock’s lips are soft and lush against his own, and John wishes this were the time for more. He’d like nothing better than to spend hours learning Sherlock’s mouth with his own. But for now they have to make do with this -- one long, careful kiss that somehow turns into three before John can force himself to lean away again.

“John,” Sherlock says shakily, and John reaches up to touch Sherlock’s face.

“I know,” he says. “Now think. What do we do next?”

Sherlock blinks. His mouth tightens and he nods, just once. John can see the moment when Sherlock’s beautiful brain kicks into gear, and feels both impressed and regretful. He rather liked seeing Sherlock’s softer side. 

“Right,” Sherlock says, getting up and starting to button his shirt. “In a perfect world, we’d be able to go back to the flat for some supplies at the very least, but as the world doesn’t seem inclined to perfection at this time, we’ll have to give that a miss. How much cash do you have access to? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Whatever we can get our hands on, it’ll have to be enough. It’s not as if we can leave the country without being tracked.” He stops and gives John an exasperated look. “You should be getting dressed.”

“Right,” John says. “Sorry.” He finds his trousers and T-shirt and puts them on while Sherlock continues with his monologue. It isn’t until he’s fully dressed, shoes on again, that Sherlock stops suddenly and looks at him again. This time, it’s a careful, studied look that makes John feel flushed and breathless. 

“Oh.” Sherlock bites his lower lip, teeth sinking into it, paused as if he’s forgotten what he was doing. “I liked you better before.”

John glances down. “What, half undressed?” he asks, amused despite himself.

“Yes. Now you’re all --” Sherlock gestures. “Covered up.” He shakes his head and goes to retrieve his own jacket, handing it to John. “Put this on for now. We’ll get you some more clothes later.”

On another occasion, John would have refused the jacket, but today he slips it on without comment. “Good. Ready?”

It doesn’t matter where they’re going, John knows; he’ll follow Sherlock Holmes anywhere. “Ready,” he says, and together they step out into the hallway and whatever awaits them.

**Author's Note:**

> Song title from Death Cab for Cutie's song "I Will Follow You Into the Dark."


End file.
